


The times of Forests, and the times of Men

by Houseplant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, And also probably reference them at the same time, Asexual!Sherlock, Gen, M/M, Sort of a Crack Fic, This is going to take extreme liberties with unicorn lore, Unicorn!Sherlock, Virgin!Sherlock, sort of not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseplant/pseuds/Houseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had so little time for faery stories these days, he had forgotten that he was one. And for that, he was dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The time of forests was over. Since the Industrial Revolution had taken hold, and timbre had become even more of a commodity, maintaining his former way of life had become virtually impossible. Back then, back before humans were as commonplace as they were in this modern age, he hadn't even the words to contemplate the passage of time, had never had to have a care about things beyond himself. Back in those days, he wouldn't have worried about such things as water cleanliness or lumber corporations; corporeal magic didn't have the words, the tendrils of awareness, to understand those terms. Not in those days, at least.

His existence was based upon magic. His form was alterable, though in those days he had no need for it. He had been comfortable to glide through the glens on four spindly legs, dark mane and tail dancing with the wind as he did. The horn on his head then had been fantastic, an accessory to the magics he could wield.

But that was then, and this was now. Now, he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and surly genius. Now, he wore the guise of those that so populated the world, who told stories of what his kind might have been had they existed with wistful sighs and gay embellishments. He dismissed these stories as illogical; he was a man of science, there was no need to indulge in faery stories, and there certainly was no need to indulge in ones about unicorns, things that could so easily be rationalised away by more interesting tales of humans outfitting their horses for battle, for a glimpse of jouster's javelin in just the right light.

Sherlock had so little time for faery stories these days, he had forgotten that he was one. And for that, he was dying.


	2. Chapter 2

It had started at crime scenes. One moment Sherlock would be a whirl of dramatic coat-tails, spitting off rapid fire deductions and insulting whichever team had the displeasure of working with the detective that day. The words and thoughts would flow, like the most formidable of rivers over sharp rocks and various debris -- and then stop.

They were small at first, quick stutters that were easily construed as Sherlock's indulgent flair for dramatics.

By the time they were noticed, it was already far too late.

x

"And if you lot would just use your _eyes_ you would see that the victim was--," The usual Holmesian rant was cut short as the thought escaped the detective. The team, who had been listening with their usual irritated intent, stared on, shifting uncomfortably when the silence spanned several seconds longer than it should have. Glances passed between such esteemed officers as Donovan and Anderson, and the shuffling turned to whispers until Lestrade spoke up.

"Sherlock?"

No reply. The detective remained where he was was, frozen to the spot, mouth open where it had ended mid-rant.

"You alright there, sunshine?" The silver-haired detective inspector queried, equally as grey eyebrow raised as he regarded the prone figure before him. None of them had seen Sherlock short-circuit quite like this before.

Sure, they had seen him when his thoughts had overwhelmed him to the point where any speech was indistinguishable unless you were also a polyglot fluent in several romance, nordic, and slavic languages. And Greg had also seen the detective when his brain was chemically neutered, drugs coursing through the (now) ex-junkie's system, blissful smiles and languid movements to do no more than tap the ash of his cigarette out on the coffee table.

This was neither of those times.

And naturally it was a day where John wasn't present, the good doctor's presence required at the surgery more and more often these days; flu season was ramping up in full gear, and a new cold was hanging on its coattails.

So that left a few detectives of New Scotland Yard, a few feet of police tape, and a murder victim to witness -- and fix -- a malfunctioning consulting detective.

Lestrade glanced at his other officers, and his forensics assistant in askance. All of them shook their heads. Sherlock took no notice of this -- or, from their vantage points, it appeared as if he didn't. Who knew what went on in that funny little mind of his.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade tried again to get the detective's attention, to no avail. "Hey, c'mon." Something in the Detective Inspector's brain told him to approach slowly, as if the man before them were an easily startled animal, rather than a man whom many of them had seen in a less-than-flattering strop.

Sherlock certainly didn't seem volatile right now, not that he had before. Slowly, Greg placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder, expecting a grumble, a flinch, or anything particularly Holmesian. What he didn't expect was the complete lack of response, even as Lestrade inelegantly dipped his hand into Sherlock's pocket, pulling out the expensive mobile.

When all else failed; Call John. It was a practically foolproof plan. In the few short months that John had taken to boarding with Sherlock, the doctor had learnt far more about dealing with the detective.

Lestrade really only knew how to deal with the strung out junkie with the bad temper and even more foul mouth.

Right now, Sherlock was neither of those things. So Greg didn't hesitate to open the last text -- from John, of course, about their takeaway orders -- and select the option to call the man. Even if the doctor were busy, a call, an actual ringing phone call, from Sherlock's mobile, would have him running to a cloakroom as soon as possible to listen to a few panicked words.

Said doctor must have been on break, as only two rings in the line clicked to life. "Who's hurt?"

Lestrade almost laughs. It's refreshing how predictable this one person is, in a world where anyone could break from the societal norm and commit any manner of atrocities at any moment. He takes a breath, amused by the mundane image of John sitting at a desk, mobile to his ear as he rifles through patient files. "Sherlock's--"

"What's he done _now_?" John doesn't wait for an explanation before asking. Sherlock's always doing _something_. It's a wonder how the two actually get along, what with that bit of temper John has.

"That's just it. He's not doing anything." It's not the greatest explanation, but it gets the point across. No need to embellish it with useless poetry.

"So he's... what?"

"He's just... stopped. Someone hit 'pause' or somethin'."

"Did you try turning him off and then on again?" John's snark isn't overly appreciated in this instance.

"Any other time and that would be hilarious, John."

"Right, right. Can you put him on the phone?" 

Lestrade doesn't bother saying that he doesn't think Sherlock will respond, and instead hold the mobile up to the detective's ear. None of them can hear exactly what John is saying, as seconds turn into minutes and it's not until an entire quarter of an hour has passed does Sherlock's frame sag just a bit, no longer trapped between times unknown.

Lestrade doesn't bother to exchange farewells, slipping the mobile back into Sherlock's coat pocket, using an arm around the man's lithe form to guide him to a waiting panda car.

They never do quite learn what Sherlock was going to say. They do, however, catch their killer.

**Author's Note:**

> If you think you've seen this first chapter before, possibly floating around over on omegle, it did indeed start as a rp!prompt. Sadly, the masses were not as amused with the idea as I was, so I've decided it will work better as a short fic.


End file.
